


Desert Memories

by celtic7irish



Series: WinterIron [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Captain America: Civil War Spoilers, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:12:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celtic7irish/pseuds/celtic7irish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony escapes Ten Rings and he is wandering the dessert when The Winter Soldier finds him. The Winter Soldier is on a mission to steal Tony from Ten Rings and make him work for the Red Room and his handlers, but due to the weather and Tony's health they are forced to take shelter. To the Winter Soldier's surprise, Stark is a lot more stubborn than he'd realized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desert Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MagykFey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagykFey/gifts).



The prisoner was struggling again, his breathing shallow and pained.  The device in his chest was flickering, the light flashing in fits and starts.  Perhaps it was malfunctioning?  The Winter Solder had never seen anything like it, but his handlers hadn’t felt the need to provide any information regarding the mission beyond a face, a name, and a basic directive – find and retrieve – and the Soldier hadn’t asked.

 

The man was making odd groaning noises now, his hands clutching at his tattered shirt.  Once the Winter Soldier had determined that the device posed no immediate threat without the giant flying metal suit, he had chained the prisoner’s ankle but left his arms free.  The captive was not a threat to him, and the minimal freedom seemed to be enough to keep him from screaming.

 

The Winter Soldier glanced back outside from the cave where he’d taken shelter, but the wind hadn’t abated, stirring up a vicious storm of sand.  If the Soldier had been on his own, he would have returned to his handlers immediately.  But the mission was in no condition to make the journey alive, and so the Soldier had sent a report to his handlers and hunkered down in a nearby cave system with his burden.  His handlers would send him instructions or send out an extraction team once the storm had passed.

 

Movement and noise behind him came to a stop, and the Winter Soldier turned his full attention to his prisoner, who was watching him with fever-bright eyes.  The Winter Soldier didn’t malfunction, but his handlers had ensured that he had basic medical knowledge.  Wordlessly, he grabbed a canteen of water and moved towards the other man, holding it out to him in a silent order.

 

“Sorry, but I don’t like to be handed things,” the prisoner managed to grit out, his voice raspy from fever and thirst.  The Winter Soldier assimilated the information, then dropped the canteen to the cave floor and moved back towards the entrance.  He would drink or he would die; it didn’t really matter either way to the Soldier.  His handlers wanted the target brought to them alive if possible, but the Winter Soldier wasn’t interested in monitoring his captive to make sure he did what he was told.

 

He had expected the other man to fall silent and drink, but a moment later, the captive spoke up.  “What? I don’t even warrant a death threat?” he complained.  “Or at least an evil glare or something.  You didn’t even chain me up properly.  What kind of supervillain are you?” The Winter Soldier ignored him – not important – but he could feel the other man’s glare.

 

The prisoner shifted with a muted moan of pain, forcing his body upright so he could lean back against the rock wall behind him and take stock of himself.  That was good; the other man would be able to tell if he was malfunctioning, and provide vital intel on how to repair any damage.  Already, his breathing was growing steadier, and a bit deeper, and the Winter Soldier filed away the new information.  The device must press down on his lungs, restricting his breathing.  Not being able to breathe wasn’t good, wasn’t safe. 

 

“Ah, damn,” the man muttered, blunt, callused fingers steady as they examined the device in his chest.  “Well, the good news is that I’m still alive.  The bad news is that I’m pretty sure I’m dying. Again.”

 

That got the Winter Soldier’s attention at last, and he spoke for the first time since acknowledging the orders he’d been given by his handlers.  “Can it be repaired?” he asked.

 

Eyebrows lifted as the other man looked up at him.  “Oh, so we do speak, huh?” he mused.  “I was starting to think I was going to have to start a game of charades.  My name’s Tony Stark, though I’m sure you knew that, considering you targeted me.  Nice aim, by the way,” he added, glancing down at his bandaged left leg where the Winter Soldier had shot him as he walked away from his destroyed suit of armor.  “Clean shot.  You aimed for a leg because of this, I suppose,” he added, gesturing to his chest.

 

“Can you be repaired?” the Soldier demanded again.  He didn’t want to know the prisoner’s name.  He was a mission, nothing more.  He would be useful if he could be swayed – or coerced – to Hydra’s cause.  The Ten Rings had wanted Stark for the weapons he could build.  Hydra wanted him for the same thing.  The Winter Soldier wasn’t sure that Stark would agree so easily.  After all, the man had apparently built a giant suit of death in a cave from a bunch of scraps.  What would he be able to build if he was given access to Hydra’s technology and resources?

 

Stark shrugged, wincing as he shifted position again, trying to find a comfortable position for his injured leg.  Reluctantly, he reached for the canteen next to him, opening it and taking a careful sniff before apparently deciding that it was probably not poisoned and taking several greedy swallows.

 

When he was finished, Stark twisted the lid back on and set the canteen next to him on the cave floor, glancing out at the sandstorm.  “Can you get me one-point-six ounces of palladium?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” the Winter Soldier replied simply.  Standing he moved back to crouch next to the other man.  He wasn’t surprised when Stark took a swing at him.  He just caught the man’s fist in his flesh hand and used the metal one to press down to the prisoner’s injured leg in warning, garnering a loud yelp.  As soon as he let go, Stark swung again.  This time, the Soldier didn’t bother to warn him.  With a quick strike, he cracked Stark’s head against the cave wall, knocking him out. 

 

Stark slumped against the wall, and the Winter Soldier quickly divested him of his shoes.  He checked that his ankle was still securely attached to the bolt he’d installed in the floor of the cave, and that his breathing was clear then left the cave.  Stark was looking for palladium, which meant that he’d had some previously, most likely in the weapons back at the Ten Rings’ camp.  He’d be there and back in under two hours.  Stark would repair himself, and the Winter Soldier would complete his mission.

 

He very carefully did not think about the brilliant brunette lying unconscious in the cave behind him.  There was nothing that could save him now.

 

*****

 

The Winter Soldier returned to the cave in one hour fifty-three minutes.  He would have been faster, but Stark had done an impressive job destroying the weapons stash at the camp.  The Winter Soldier would take care to include that in his mission report; Tony Stark could prove problematic for Hydra if given a long enough leash.

 

He could feel that something was wrong as he approached the cave where he’d left Stark.  Dropping into a low crouch, he moved forward quickly and silently, trying to pick out clues that might tell him what was waiting for him inside.  It only took him another moment to realize that the cave was too still, too quiet.  Even in sleep, Stark had been restless.  Quiet was bad; it mean he had gotten sicker, or worse.

 

Using far less caution than was advisable, the Winter Soldier darted into the cave, his eyes seeking out the far wall.  For a moment, all he saw was a thin, sickly blonde, blue eyes glazed over with fever as his chest rattled dangerously with every breath.  The Soldier blinked, and he was gone, replaced with a pile of bloody bandages and an empty shackle.  Stark was gone.

 

A flash of irritation shot through the Winter Soldier.  Stark was more stubborn than he’d given the man credit for.  The mission was going downhill fast, and his handlers had made it very clear that if his mark escaped, the mission would be terminated.    That meant a memory wipe and cryo until the next assignment.  If he was lucky.  Otherwise, he’d have to be retrained, and that would be far worse.

 

The Winter Soldier carefully tucked away the missile components he’d managed to retrieve – Stark probably still needed the Palladium – then left the cave, sharp gaze searching for the direction Stark had taken when he’d left.  The sandstorm had ended almost half an hour earlier, but Stark was still injured, so his options would have been limited.  To the left was a steep drop, which would have required a good amount of strength that Stark likely didn’t have at this point.  And the Winter Soldier hadn’t passed any signs of the other man.  So he had likely taken the path to the right.

 

The Soldier moved quickly, picking out signs of places where Stark had slipped in the sand.  The other man obviously wasn’t called a genius for nothing; even injured, feverish, and malfunctioning, Stark knew enough to at least try to cover his tracks.  The Winter Soldier doubted that the Ten Rings would be able to track Stark, but the Soldier was much, much better than they were.

 

Even so, it was nearly forty minutes before the Winter Soldier found the set of caves that Stark had chosen to get lost in.  It was a good choice, with multiple exits but limited branching pathways to get lost in.  Stark was either very knowledgeable or very lucky, but the very reasons that made this cave system ideal for hiding also made it ideal for tracking.  All the Winter Soldier had to do was follow the scuff marks.  And the blood.

 

Ten minutes later the Soldier rounded a corner and found Stark, who had realized he was being followed.  His swing was a bit off, probably due to blood loss, but the blow to his head was enough to make the Soldier’s ears ring.  Brown eyes glared at him defiantly, even as he stumbled, catching his balance and twisting to take another shot.

 

The Winter Soldier grabbed for Stark, pinning him against the tunnel wall with his metal arm pressed to his throat, cutting off his air supply.  Stark gasped, his hands gripping the arm across his throat, for all the good it did him.  “So what?” Stark gasped.  “You’re going to kill me? Go ahead and try.”  He didn’t want to die – that much was obvious – but he was just stupid enough to goad the man holding his life in his hands.

 

Stepping forward, the Winter Soldier pinned Stark more firmly, using his body to press him hard into the wall behind him before he could get any leverage.  “You are malfunctioning.  You are weak,” he noted, the words a well-known mantra in his head.

 

Stark’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.  The soldier pulled his arm back just enough for the man to breathe, his other hand gripping Stark’s hair in warning.

 

“You’re only weak if you give up,” Stark bit out.  “And I won’t. I’ll just run again.  You know that, right?”

 

 _“I could do this all day.”_   The words echoed oddly in the Soldier’s ears, overlaid by a wall of static.  He stared at Stark intently.  The other man was watching him, but he had stopped struggling, either because he was too weak or because he had decided that the odds were currently against him.

 

“Who was that?” the Winter Soldier demanded, his fist tightening as he pushed in close, separated only by centimeters from the other man.  “Why do I keep hearing him?”

 

Stark winced as his head was twisted to the side by the Soldier’s grip in his hair.  “Who was who? I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he denied, his gaze assessing.  “Maybe if you told me who you are and why you kidnapped me, we can work something out.”  He offered the Soldier a charming smile that was as false as the Soldier’s metal arm.

 

The Winter Soldier backed away, letting Stark slump to the floor.  He dropped the pack from his shoulders to the ground with a quiet thump, then knelt down and reached for Stark’s leg.  The smaller man curled away from him, eyeing him warily.  The Soldier didn’t have time for this, but he also realized that if Stark couldn’t be swayed by brute force, perhaps he could be coaxed into conversation.  Not that the Winter Soldier was any good at conversations – talking wasn’t necessary during an assassination – but he needed Stark to cooperate, or he’d never get him back to his handlers and the Red Room.

 

He reached for the pack and pulled out more bandages, as well as the missile components, setting everything next to Stark.  “Palladium,” he said unnecessarily.  “Your leg needs to be cleaned and rebandaged.”  He didn’t have much more than water to clean the wound out with, but it would have to do for now.  The Winter Soldier didn’t get infections, so proper medical care was usually not necessary.  He hadn’t actually intended to shoot Stark when he’d been sent to retrieve the man, but after he’d seen the flying metal suit, he’d realized that Stark was a lot more resourceful than he’d been led to believe.

 

Dark eyes narrowed at him.  “I can do it myself,” he insisted, reaching out for the bandages.  The Winter Soldier held it easily out of his reach, and Stark pouted.  “Fine,” he grumbled, reaching instead for the weapon components and stripping them with ruthless efficiency.  The Winter Soldier reached for his leg, moving carefully as he pulled off the wrapping and inspected the wound.  When he had first bandaged Stark, he had decided it would be easiest and most efficient to just tear the pants – they were ruined anyhow – and wrap the leg. 

 

Stark’s skin was red and abraded from the sand, and his feet were blistered.  The Soldier was impressed despite himself; he couldn’t imagine the pain Stark must have been in.  The cool stone undoubtedly felt good against his overheated skin.

 

The only indication that Stark was even aware of the Soldier’s movements was the sharp intake of breath as he felt around the wound.  The skin was hot, and the Soldier poured water over it carefully, using a small washcloth to clean in and around the wound.  Stark’s thigh tensed, then relaxed.  “I don’t suppose you have any tweezers, huh?” he muttered.  The Soldier reached into his bag and pulled out a pair, still wrapped in plastic – one never knew when he might have to dig a bullet out of his own body.  He set that next to Stark as well. 

 

The genius picked them up and bent his head back over his work, carefully extracting a very small sliver of something – Palladium, presumably – and holding it up in the dim light of the cave.  Seemingly satisfied, he set it down very carefully, then started in on the next one while the Winter Soldier finished cleaning his wound as best he could and bandaged the leg.  One he got Stark back to his handlers, they would be able to provide proper treatment, but for now, this was the best he could do.  Well, almost.

 

The Winter Soldier pulled out a pair of soft pants and dropped them on Stark’s lap.  The other man blinked at them owlishly for a minute, then glanced up.  “Thanks,” he muttered, struggling to slip them on over the remnants of his previous pants.  “Now, how about we get back to our conversation?” he asked once he had them on.  “Or rather, our one-sided talk?  Who are you, and what do you want from me?  You speak English, at least, which is a plus.”  He looked up at the Soldier, taking in his features with a frown.  “You do look familiar,” he admitted, “but I have no idea who you are.”

 

“James Barnes,” the Soldier answered quietly, the name foreign and heavy on his tongue.  He was usually just called Soldier, or the Asset.  He rarely had a use for his proper name, unless he had orders for reconnaissance and needed to blend in.  His metal arm usually attracted too much attention for even that, though.

 

“Barnes.  Barnes,” Stark muttered.  It only took him a moment before his head snapped up.  “Wait, as in Captain America’s James Barnes? Bucky?!”  He was staring at him in disbelief.  “That’s not possible. You’d have to be around a hundred years old by now.”

 

The Soldier shrugged.  “I don’t remember,” he said flatly.  “Who’s Captain America?”  Personally, he thought it was a stupid name, but he knew better than to voice an opinion of his own.  Having opinions or asking questions usually lead to a wipe, so it was better to keep quiet.

 

Stark frowned at him.  “What do you remember?” he asked instead, settling in against the cave wall.  Apparently, he had realized that the Winter Soldier wasn’t going to kill him for running, and he was too weak to escape right now anyhow.  The Soldier dropped the water canteen in Stark’s lap, waiting until he picked it up and took a few sips before answering.

 

“Cold. Chemicals.  White. Words. Orders.”  He frowned back at Stark, the man’s exhaustion stirring up other, long forgotten memories.  “Soup? Blankets? Hot skin.  Ice.  Movies.  Train. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,  three-two-two-five-seven-zero-three-eight.  Graveyard. Scrappy kid. War.”  He groaned involuntarily, his metal hand moving up to fist in his own hair and gripping tightly, the images coming fast and furious now.

 

The first tentative touch sent him recoiling back, his right hand reaching for the blade he carried strapped to his thigh.  “Whoa, whoa, easy,” a somewhat familiar voice said uneasily.  “I’m sorry, I should know better, but you were really freaking out there.  Should I shut up now? I should probably shut up now.  Please don’t kill me.”  Then there was silence, which he vaguely felt should be somewhat surprising.  The Winter Soldier held the knife up in a ready position as he reoriented himself.  It had been a long while since he’d had flashes like that, and the last time, he had killed two of his handlers and sent a third to the hospital.  The punishment had been severe, and after that, he had retrained himself to pull back rather than attack.

 

Stark was watching him warily, his lower lip caught between his teeth and his entire body braced as if for a blow.  The Winter Soldier allowed the knifepoint to lower just slightly, and the other man slumped.  “Oh, good, you’re back,” he mumbled, swaying.  It was only the Winter Soldier’s quick reflexes that kept Stark from hitting his head on the cave floor when he passed out.

 

*****

 

The Winter Soldier noticed the moment Stark started to stir, his fingers twisting in the small, scratchy blanket the Soldier had dropped over him as soon as his fever had broken.  Uncapping the canteen of water, he held it up to Stark’s mouth.  The man moaned, his mouth clamping shut as he tried to turn his head away.  The Soldier gripped his chin firmly, holding it in place as he pressed the lip of the canteen insistently against Stark’s mouth.  “Drink, Stark,” he ordered.  “You’re dehydrated.”

 

Dark eyes fluttered open and peered up at him muzzily.  “Barnes?” Stark mumbled, then promptly choked when the Winter Soldier took advantage of his open mouth to pour water down his throat.  He gasped, trying to jerk away, but Barnes wouldn’t let him.  He held his head still, but pulled the canteen away and held it up in front of him, waiting until Stark’s breathing evened out and his eyes focused on the canteen.

 

“Drink,” he ordered again, pushing the container against Stark’s chest until the other man’s hand came up to hold it there himself.  He turned away, satisfied to hear Stark drink, taking a tentative sip, followed by several large gulps.  He screwed the lid back on when he was done, then went to push himself up, only to be stopped by the cuff around his ankle.   He frowned down at it consideringly for a long moment.

 

“Was that really necessary, Barnes?” he asked, his fingers poking at the cuff.  The Soldier had only given him about four inches of chain to work with.

 

“You got out the first time,” Barnes pointed out.  “That’s unacceptable.”  He nodded towards the palladium that Stark had managed to extract from the weapon components.  “What do you need?” he asked.

 

Stark shrugged.  “I need a replacement for this damn reactor,” he replied, his hand slapping against the edges of the device.  “But failing that, I need to replace the core in this one.”  He looked deeply uncomfortable as he said it, and the Winter Soldier just waited him out. “I don’t suppose you’d go away for this part, huh?” he asked weakly.  “Yeah, didn’t think so,” he muttered when Barnes didn’t move.

 

Grimacing, his fingers settled into place around the reactor.  With a sharp twist, the reactor unlocked.  The Winter Soldier was fascinated, and it took him a moment to realize that Stark hadn’t made any further motions to remove the device from his chest.  His eyes flicked up, and he scowled at Stark.  “It needs to be replaced.  Replace it,” he demanded impatiently.

 

Stark scowled right back at him.  “Pardon me if I’d rather not show you the hole in my chest!” he snapped back angrily, but his eyes weren’t angry; they were afraid.  The Winter Soldier understood.  Stark would be vulnerable, even weaker than he was already.  Barnes had already determined that the device – reactor – was keeping Stark alive, even if he wasn’t sure of its exact purpose.

 

Brown eyes glittered oddly in the blue light of the reactor, afraid and determined and bitter, and he twisted away before Stark could ask again.  “You need food,” he decided, standing and walking towards the pack he had left by the cave entrance.  He had carried Stark’s unconscious body back up towards the front of the cave system to make extraction easier.  He settled down near the pack, reaching in and pulling out a couple of MRE’s, but he made no move to return to Stark’s side, instead staring out at the desert.  The sky was endless in the desert, with no cloud cover or city lights to dim the cold light of the moon and stars.

 

If there was one thing that the Winter Soldier’s missions had taught him, it was patience.  Locate the target, observe the target, isolate the target, take out the target.  It involved waiting, still and silent, sometimes for hours or days until an opportunity presented itself.  The Soldier was good at waiting.  But Barnes?  He hated it.

 

He was rewarded after about ten minutes when Stark gave a small, pained grunt, and then got to work, the gentle scrape of fingers and tools on metal filling the cave as the man worked, muttering to himself.  Barnes allowed his attention to drift a little – he’d know if Stark tried to escape, but there was no need to be hyper-vigilant with just the two of them in the cave – and he allowed his thoughts to turn towards the visions – memories? – from earlier.

 

Stark had called him Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s friend.  But that didn’t sound right.  He was the Winter Soldier.  Captain America, if he was even alive, was nothing more than an enemy that must be destroyed.  So far, Hydra had found no proof of his continued survival, despite their infiltration of the Strategic Homeland Intervention and Enforcement Logistics Division (they really needed a better name for their organization).

 

The tiny, scrappy-looking blonde in his visions didn’t look anything like the Captain America images that he’d been shown.  Captain America was big, and fast, and strong.  The blonde – Steve, his name was Steve – was small and slender, blue eyes defiant even as he lay in bed sick with influenza.  Barnes couldn’t deny that there were similarities, but he couldn’t mesh the two of them in his mind.  They weren’t the same.  They couldn’t be.

 

“Tell me about Captain America,” he said at last, startling Stark, who looked up at him sharply.  Barnes didn’t turn around.  “Is he alive?”

 

Stark was quiet for another moment as he fiddled with the reactor in his hands.  “Captain America was a super soldier created by Abraham Erskine and my father,” he said at least.  “With funding from the United States military.  He was fast and strong and single-handedly rescued the 107th from behind enemy lines during the second world war.  He was a good man.”  Stark shifted, pushing the device back into his chest and twisting it with a small click.  “He must have been.  My dad never stopped looking for him.”  There was no hiding the bitterness in his voice; Stark didn’t even try.

 

Barnes turned to face him now.  “Captain America is dead?” he checked, watching closely for any signs of a lie.

 

Stark met his eyes.  “I don’t know.  I mean, he crashed his plane into the Arctic and saved a lot of people, and his body was never recovered.  There are no notes anywhere about the serum, so I don’t know if he survived or not.  I can’t imagine that anybody – super soldier or not – could survive being frozen for more than seventy years, though,” he added. 

 

Barnes considered that for a moment, but the information held no significance to him.  Stark was watching him again.  “You…never really knew him as Captain America, huh?” he asked curiously.  “Steve Rogers?”

 

The Soldier’s eyes cut to him sharply.  Steve…Stevie.  The name was familiar.  He nodded.  “Yes, I know that name.  I know…him,” he said slowly, carefully.

 

Tony sighed, his expression softening to something that nearly approached sympathy.  “They really messed you up bad, huh?” he murmured.  “You don’t even remember your best friend, and I don’t know enough about the man behind Captain America to be able to tell you anything.”  He would’ve said more, but the sudden sound of helicopters overhead stopped him and he looked up towards the ceiling, as if he could see right through the rock to the rescue just out of his reach.  “Fuck,” he breathed out, sounding shocked.  He obviously hadn’t heard them approaching.

 

The Winter Soldier moved quickly, shutting away the glimmer of emotions that Stark had brought forth.  Sticking to the shadows, he watched the two helicopters fly overhead, circling the area.  No doubt they were looking at the destroyed camp.  It was only a matter of time before they had boots on the ground working rescue and recovery.  Hydra should be nearby, but they couldn’t risk using SHIELD resources or being seen by the US military, so they’d have to wait until the area was clear.

 

He watched as the helicopters circled half a dozen more times before turning further east, towards where Stark had been previously.  Once he was certain that they were unlikely to turn back, the Winter Soldier moved back to Stark’s side and dropped a couple of MRE bars on his lap.  They would have to do for now.

 

Stark didn’t even protest, his eyes lowered towards his lap as he ate.  Having the helicopters so close by and then listening to them moving past him must have dampened his spirit, and the Soldier moved about the cave, quickly gathering up their scarce supplies and erasing any evidence of their stay.  He eyed Stark’s leg apprehensively, but decided that if he had to, he would just carry the man across the desert.

 

Once he had everything completed to his satisfaction, Barnes looked outside.  The sky was starting to darken, and it would be cold soon.  They’d have to move then, using the cover of darkness to make their way towards the nearest pick-up location.  It was too risky to wait for Hydra agents to make their way to them.

 

Stark had finished eating and was watching him, his fingers drumming idly against his uninjured thigh.  His eyebrows arched, and he asked, “Are we going somewhere?” he asked.  The Soldier tossed the key to the cuffs at him.  The moment Stark had the cuff unlocked, he reached down and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him up to his feet before turning him around and shoving him up against the wall.  Stark bucked on instinct, but Barnes kicked his legs apart and wrestled his arms behind his back so he could cuff them.  There was no chance in hell that he was going to give Stark use of both of his hands without him being shackled to the floor. 

 

“Let’s go,” he grunted, once he had Stark’s arms secured.  The other man twisted his wrists and flexed his arms, testing their hold on him, but Barnes had used a special set of shackles, thicker and wider than normal cuffs, and with only a short, thick chain between them.

 

Stark took a step forward, then wobbled, his bad leg threatening to collapse on him.  “You know, this would have worked a lot better if you hadn’t shot me,” Stark pointed out mildly, grinning at him.  He seemed almost amused with his predicament.  Barnes stepped towards him, and he twisted away, taking a step back. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice still light and teasing, though there was a thread of worry underneath his words now.

 

“You can’t walk on that,” Barnes pointed out.  “So stay still and shut up.”  _Or am I gonna have to drag you home by your scruff, punk?_   Ignoring the thought-memory, Barnes grabbed Stark around the waist, ignoring his yelp as he threw him over his shoulder.  Stark wouldn’t be able to stay in that position for long or he’d get dizzy – or sick – but the Soldier could move more quickly this way.

 

“Hey, what’s…no! Put me down, dammit!” Stark demanded, struggling for a moment.  Barnes just clamped down tighter on his hips, his other hand grabbing the man’s kicking legs.  He had the pack on his other shoulder, and as he ducked out of the cave into the evening desert, Stark fell silent.  “Oh, well, okay then,” he said, his voice taking on a quality that was unfamiliar to the Winter Soldier.  “If you insist.”  He twisted around a bit more, and then went still, seemingly perfectly content to stay where Barnes had put him.

 

There was a whole blessed five minutes of silence before Stark started talking again.  “So, I probably should have asked before, but where are we going, exactly? Are you an agent of some shady government organization?  You’re not like the Ten Rings, at least.  And what’s with your arm? Who made it?  I could make a better one.”  He didn’t seem to require an answer, so Barnes ignored him.  Stark just kept talking, pausing on occasion when his voice got hoarse.  His arms flexed now and again, either trying to readjust or just testing his restraints, but he didn’t actively try to escape Barnes’ hold, so the Soldier ignored it for the most part.

 

It took nearly four hours before the Soldier saw a familiar cave entrance, and he headed for it, trusting the desert to cover his tracks.  Hydra had a base hidden in that cave, though it was rarely used.  Perhaps agents would be there when he arrived, but even if they weren’t, he’d be able to send a secure message to update them on his current status with his prisoner.

 

He paused at the base of the cave, taking a quick look around.  Entrance would require some rock scrabbling, easy enough for him, but not with Stark on his shoulders.  The most practical solution was to release Stark’s cuffs and let him climb the rocks himself.  The Soldier had seen Stark’s arms, and knew that he had the upper body strength to pull himself up into the cave, even if he couldn’t use his one leg to full capacity.

 

He lifted Stark off his shoulders and set him on the rocks at the base of the cave, giving him a moment to reorient himself to being upright again.  Stark tilted his head back, then rolled his eyes.  “Another cave, really?” he sighed.  “Shouldn’t you have, like, a super-secret base buried under the sand or something? Or maybe vehicles? Helicopters? Why are you dragging my ass through the desert?”

 

Barnes ignored him.  Stark never shut up as it was; he didn’t want to encourage him.  “Climb,” he ordered instead, deciding that it would better if he was below Stark than above him, hauling him up the rock face.

 

Stark sighed, but didn’t protest, putting most of his weight on his good leg as he reached up and found solid handholds.  The Winter Soldier was moderately impressed, since he was pretty sure Stark had never rock climbed a day in his life.  With a grunt, Stark started climbing.  Barnes waited until he was maybe halfway to the entrance before following.  He was forced to pause when Stark had to stop to find another handhold, his right hand scrambling.  His foot slipped, and his hand grabbed onto the rock, his legs swinging loose.  There was a sharp cracking noise as his chest hit the rock, and Stark grunted in surprise.  “Ow,” he complained.

 

Barnes couldn’t check on him from down here, so he just grabbed Stark’s ankle and pressed his foot back against the rock.  Once Stark was stabilized, he continued making his way upwards.  Barnes waited until he pulled himself over the ledge before following.  When he reached the top, Stark was exploring the entrance to the cave.  “So you do have a super-secret hideout in Afghanistan,” he mused.  He seemed pleased with the concept.

 

The Winter Soldier looked around for the tiny crevice that would contain a biometric scanner.  Once he found it, he slipped his flesh hand inside.  As he waited to be scanned, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he twisted around, his leg catching Stark’s knee as the man made for the edge.  Stark managed to stay on his feet, and the Soldier sighed to himself as a door to the side of the cave opening slid to the side, revealing a simple corridor.  “Stark,” he said needlessly, “there’s no point in fighting it.  You can’t beat me.”  It wasn’t bragging; it was fact.  Stark had no formal training, and he was malnourished and injured.  There was no way he could take on a trained Hydra assassin.  “Don’t make me shoot you in the other leg,” he growled when he finally managed to grab Stark, hauling him back up onto the ledge.

 

Stark rolled over onto his back, breathing hard.  “Damn, you move fast,” he muttered, but he was grinning.

 

“You weren’t trying to run,” Barnes stated, and it wasn’t a question.

 

Stark shrugged.  “Don’t get me wrong, if I had actually managed to escape, I absolutely would have, and we both know it.  And I’ll keep trying, too.  An entire terrorist organization couldn’t hold me.”

 

Barnes sighed.  “You just don't know when to give up, do ya?” he asked.  Stark made a startled face at him.  Barnes’ eyes narrowed.  “What?” he demanded.

 

“You really are from Brooklyn, aren’t you?” Stark asked, pushing himself upwards and allowing Barnes to steer him into the Hydra base.  He glanced at the wall motif – Hydra was overly fond of their crest, and painted it everywhere – then turned his attention back to Barnes.  “The accent,” he clarified.  “It’s very distinctive.”

 

Barnes shrugged.  “I don’t know,” he replied.  “You feel familiar, like I know you, or someone like you.”

 

Stark scowled.  “You probably knew my dad if you were around during the war,” he replied.  “Howard Stark.  Ring any bells?”

 

Barnes’ eyes narrowed.  He knew that name, and it only took him a moment to put two and two together.  Howard Stark, wife Maria and son Anthony.  Target. December 6, 1991.  Anthony hadn’t been in the car, and Howard had been the primary target for that mission.

 

“Howard Stark,” he murmured, “was an ass.”  He blinked; he hadn’t meant to say that.  But perhaps it was better than admitting to his son that he’d killed the man on orders from his Hydra handlers; the same people who now wanted Howard’s son to work for them.  If Tony Stark ever found out about Hydra’s hand in his parents’ deaths, they’d have to kill him, because he would never stop trying to destroy them.  Barnes knew it with absolute certainty; Stark was stubborn to the point of self-destruction.

 

Stark snorted, offering Barnes a wry smile.  “I…can’t disagree with that, actually,” he replied.  “But really, who the hell do you work for?” he asked, changing the topic.  “I’ve never seen this symbol before.  And I thought I knew the insignia of all the terrorist and military groups out there.”

 

“Because you’re the Merchant of Death?” Barnes asked, curious despite himself.

 

Stark grimaced. “Ah, yeah, about that…if your bosses are hoping I’ll make shiny new weapons for them, they’re in for a really long wait.  I don’t do that anymore, and as soon as I get back home, I’m shutting down the weapons manufacturing department of Stark Industries.”

 

Barnes looked at him.  “Can you do that?” he asked, trying to wrap his head around that.  He was a soldier; he lived and died by his weapons, and the weapons that Stark Industries produced were the most high-tech things out there.

 

Stark shrugged.  “Sure, I can. I own the company.  Stocks will take a hit, and Obie will probably be pissed, but I don’t care.  I’m done; my weapons should have never ended up in the hands of terrorists. They were supposed to protect our soldiers, not kill them.”

 

“You intend to stop making weapons because they kill people?” Barnes asked blandly.  For some odd reason, the thought made him want to smile.  He kept his expression carefully neutral.

 

Stark tilted his head.  “Well, when you put it that way…yeah,” he shrugged.  “And I’ll do it, too. Just as soon as I get out of here.”  He still sounded certain that he would.

 

Barnes pressed his palm against a scanner next to another door.  It slid open, revealing rows of computer databases, built sometime in the sixties, judging by their size.  Stark looked around in disgust as the door shut behind them.  “What is this? I mean, seriously, do these things even run on electricity?”  He peered down a row of servers.  “Are those…vacuum tubes?”  He ogled the apparatus.  “No, this is…I don’t even have the words,” he spat.

 

“Then shut up,” Barnes suggested.  Stark gave him a dirty look, which he ignored.  “Follow me,” he ordered.

 

Stark huffed, but did as ordered, the odd _thump-shuffle_ of working with an injured leg following Barnes through the base, past the computers and communication rooms, and into the living quarters.  There was unlikely to be much here that was edible, but there should at least be MRE’s and water.  And medical supplies.

 

“Sit,” Barnes ordered, pointing to a somewhat uncomfortable looking chair situated in the middle of a circle of chairs.  There were cuffs on the arms and bolts installed in the floor.  This was where Hydra had brought their prisoners, to be interrogated and tortured while the Hydra agents sat around in relative comfort, eating and drinking and smoking even as they tore into their victims.

 

“I’d rather not,” Stark refused, eyeing the chair warily.  It was pretty damn obvious what it was for.

 

Barnes glared at him.  “Sit. Down,” he bit out.  Stark sat, and Barnes pulled out the shackles he’d been using earlier, making sure it was snug on Stark’s ankle before looping it to the ring in the floor.  Then he stood up and left the room, searching for medical supplies.  He’d tend to Stark’s injuries, then leave with him with some food and water before moving on to the communications room and seeing if he could get the system up and running so he could send a message to his handlers.  It was nearing six days since he’d been put into commission, and his handlers would be getting antsy if he didn’t report in soon.

 

Stark hadn’t moved when he returned.  He set the medical supplies and clothes on the floor then set about tending to Stark’s leg.  Other than a few aborted twitches, Stark was remarkably patient.  And quiet.  It was enough to make Barnes suspicious, but another look around confirmed that there was nothing within reach of Stark that he could use to escape, so he shook it off.

 

When he was finished, he held out a water bottle to Stark.  To his surprise, the other man accepted it, testing the cap before opening it and drinking about half of it, making a face at the warm, flat taste of it.  Still, it was better than nothing, and Stark was reaching for a second bottle by the time the Soldier left him to his own devices.  Stark couldn’t get into too much trouble here.  Right?

 

*****

 

“You do realize you’re asking for a miracle here, right?” Stark grumbled from behind one of the massive machines, stripping a handful of wires.  The machines had apparently not been preserved as well as they should have been, and he could not bring up a connection.  Stark was an engineer; if anybody could get the system up and running, it would be him.  And as long as the Soldier kept an eye on him, he shouldn’t be able to sneak out a message of his own.

 

“Just make it work, Stark,” he snapped back, in no mood to humor the other man.

 

Stark peered up at him.  “Has anybody ever told you that you have more mood swings than a pregnant woman?” he retorted.  “You need to get laid or something.  I can hook you up.  What’s your type?  Blond? Brunette? Curves or muscles? Petite?  Oh, I know!  Blond hair, blue eyes, right?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

 

The Winter Soldier felt he should’ve been offended at the other man’s insinuations, but all he could think about was a blonde haired teen with angry blue eyes.  _“_ _I should be going with you. Look, I know you don't think I can do this...” “This isn’t a back alley, Steve. It’s war!”_

 

“Short, compact, and brunette,” he drawled instead.  “Mouthy, too,” he added, stepping behind the machine and crowding up against Stark, pushing him back against the servers.

 

To his credit, Stark covered up his surprise quickly.  “Oh, really?” he purred, staring up at Barnes through his eyelashes, his body going easy and loose against the machines as he smirked seductively.  “Well, if I had known that earlier, this would’ve been much easier.”

 

“Too stubborn and determined for his own damn good,” Barnes added.  “Uncompromising.”  Some part of him knew he shouldn’t do this, knew that he’d be retrained for it, but he was starting to not care.  Stark was infuriating, but there was something about him that just screamed to be noticed.

 

He wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but the next thing he knew, their mouths had crashed into each other, Barnes’ hands fisted in Stark’s shirt, Stark’s strong fingers digging into his waist as he made a muffled groan into the Soldier’s mouth.  Stark’s right hand traveled upwards, fingers twisting in dark strands of hair as he opened his mouth, deepening the kiss.

 

The Winter Soldier should have seen it coming.  But the Soldier wasn’t in charge right now; James Barnes was.  And Barnes was not expecting Stark to wield emotions against him, stirring up memories and desire, making Barnes remember, just a little, who he used to be.  Stark might not be a dame, but he was quick and clever and nimble, and Barnes was surprised when he suddenly found a cable wrapped around his throat.

 

He jerked back, which only served to give Stark more leverage, and they both crashed to the ground, hitting a row of servers on the way down.  Stark’s teeth were gritted as his muscles flexed, pulling the cable tight, cutting of Barnes’ air.  “I’d apologize, but I’m not really sorry,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

 

Barnes’ metal hand was keeping the cable from snapping his neck, so he used his other hand to grab for Stark’s wrist, intending to break it if necessary.  Stark grunted, twisting away and to the side, and the Soldier rolled with him, his knee twisting around to slam into Stark’s leg.  The brunette cried out, but only tightened his grip on the cable.  The Soldier’s vision blurred, and he could feel himself losing consciousness.  Reaching out, he wrapped his hand around Stark’s throat, but he was too far gone to finish it.  Darkness took over swiftly, and he wondered if this was it; if this was the end of the line for him.

 

Behind closed eyes, he saw a pair of eyes; one brown, one blue.  Both of them were watching him, worry and fear and anger mixing in their depths.  “I'm so sorry.”

 

"Bucky!"

 

*****

 

James Buchanan Barnes regained consciousness surrounded by soldiers and scientists, his arms and wrists bound to a familiar metal chair, the cold eyes of his Hydra handlers glaring at him.  “You failed, Soldier,” they told him.  “Unacceptable.”  He swallowed hard; failure inevitably led to pain.

 

“I…what did I do wrong?” he asked, steeling himself for the blow that he knew would come.  Sure enough, one of the guards struck him hard in the jaw, snapping his head to the side.  At least they hadn’t rendered his head immobile yet, or else he’d be able to feel the blow reverberating through his skull.  Two more punches fell just as swiftly before the lead scientist held up a hand, stopping the soldier from hitting him again. 

 

Barnes allowed his head to drop, his hair falling in front of his eyes to cover whatever emotions might be showing.  And as the words flowed over him, as they prepared the mind wipe, he remembered blue eyes and brown eyes and pretty smiles and indomitable will.

 

As he started to scream, he wondered if he’d ever see either of them again.

 

Or if he’d remember them if he did.

**Author's Note:**

> So I started with a simple idea, then it sort of got out of control. I hope you enjoy it, and that it was what you had in mind (or at least close!).


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